


Paint Me A Rainbow And Call Me A Cab, Part One

by kuonji



Series: Paint Me A Rainbow And Call Me A Cab [1]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode Related, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-12 09:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7929688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuonji/pseuds/kuonji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Ken, c'mon.  Just an hour or two."</em>
</p><p>Ken's friend drags him out for the night to a certain night club, and he leaves with much more than he'd bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint Me A Rainbow And Call Me A Cab, Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely [Tat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tat) for being the first to read this and for always being a tireless cheerleader!

The phone rang a third time, and Ken rolled his eyes as he leaned back in his chair to snatch up the receiver. "No, Charlie," he said, before the other person could say anything.

"Ken, c'mon. Just an hour or two."

"That doesn't include dressing up and getting there and back."

"Who needs to dress up? You always look good."

"I'm in the middle of something."

"So take a break! You always work too hard anyway. You're going to get old before your time."

Ken sighed. "It's for the show next month. I promised them four pieces and I only have two done." He looked forlornly at the half-finished sketch (his second revision) on his art table. He knew he was about to give in to his best friend.

Charlie knew it, too. "I'll pick you up in twenty."

"Charlie..."

"You're not driving that junk heap of yours," his friend replied, deliberately misunderstanding him. "Somebody will take it apart, thinking it's spare parts."

"All right, already. One hour. If you haven't got company by then, we're heading home anyway."

"Great! Oh, and Ken?"

"Yeah?" He smiled, knowing what was coming next.

"Wear blue."

***

It was only fifteen minutes before Charlie showed up in a form-fitting dark green shirt and impossibly tight black jeans. His jet-black hair was slicked up so much Ken felt he could probably see his face in it.

"Oh, Charlie, you smell like an auto shop."

"I love a man with grease on him."

"Well, you'll have one, soon as somebody makes the mistake of touching you." Ken made a show of putting his hands behind his back.

" _You_ look as fine as ever," Charlie teased. He looked up and down at Ken's outfit, a blue silk shirt, as ordered, with his 'good' jeans. He licked his lips lasciviously. "You sure you don't want to just... stay in for the night?"

Ken turned him around and pushed him out the door. "I already got dressed up for you, Lothario. You owe me cab fare and a drink."

"Aw, paint me a rainbow."

"I'll paint your _ass_ if you don't get a move on. I want to get back in time for some work."

"Are you calling me easy?"

Ken slapped his friend's aforementioned ass. "To avoid injuring the sensibilities of younger viewers, I'll refrain from comment."

***

Just as Ken had predicted, it wasn't half an hour before Charlie had settled in a corner seat with some weight-lifter genius in a muscle shirt. Ken stayed around just to make sure the guy's risk factor was as low as his IQ before leaving the happy couple alone.

True to his word, Charlie had provided cab fare and a daiquiri. Ken swirled his glass around and drained the last of it now. He dithered between going home immediately or hanging out for a while. He did have work to do. On the other hand, as his friend liked to point out to him, he didn't get out often. One night off couldn't hurt.

He made his way through the Friday night crowd to the bar where he ordered a beer on tap. As he took the first foaming cold swallow, he looked around, ready to enjoy one of his favorite activities -- people-watching.

A lone figure slouched a few seats over immediately caught his eye.

Brown leather jacket. Tight blue jeans. Blue sneakers. Not quite the outfit for a night on the town. Probably a working-class fellow here for relaxation. He sure looked like he needed it. His heavy brows were drawn low away from his wild head of dark curls. His strong chin was tucked down, his full lips broody, his dark lashes half-closed over his downcast eyes. He slumped over his drink like it was his last friend in the universe.

Ken smiled a bit as he studied this character, placing him in a mental composition of shadow and sharp angry corners. That distinctive profile would go well with a wash of blue. Maybe a touch of red at his throat, a bandanna or -- the man shifted, and the collar of a red plaid shirt peeked out. _Perfect._ It was as if he were a model sent especially for Ken's inspiration.

The man shifted around and glared at Ken. His chiseled face seemed only made more handsome by the expression. "What's yur prohblem?" he demanded, voice slurred by both drink and what sounded like an east coast accent.

Ken shook himself out of his 'artist's haze', as he called it. "I-- I'm sorry," he stuttered. Then, angry at his own cowardice, he demanded back, "Can't a man have a drink here? Or do you own the bar?"

"Aw, don't bother with him," cut in Murph, the stringy-haired bartender. He leaned in for a loud faux-whisper: "He's _straight_."

The man sharpened his glare, having obviously heard the comment, as he'd been meant to. "Yeah? So, what? Yah won't serve me? That's a laugh."

"Why _are_ you serving him?" Ken asked, in a real whisper. The occasional 'curious' client was okay, but the management didn't usually tolerate belligerent straights. Especially not stupendously drunk ones. Now that Ken took better notice of the man's features as a fellow human being instead of as an artist, he could see the watery eyes and the red cheeks as warning signs of an angry man with lowered inhibitions.

Murph rolled his eyes. "Sugar's taken a shine to him. He's the cop, you know."

Ken shrank back instinctively at the word 'cop'. He corrected himself immediately, remembering he was in as safe a place as he could be. Not to mention, Murph's choice of words was interesting. " _The_ cop?"

"The one who caught that guy last week. Where've you been?"

"Working. Like usual. And, what guy?"

Murph sighed, looking put-upon. The curly-headed man looked over at them at the sound. "The guy who was trying to kill Nick. You know, because he picked up that cop that used to come here. That _john_?" He snickered.

Ken was aware only of the sound of shattering glass before Murph was bowled over by a dark, frenzied blur. His yell was lost quickly in the loud music, and the man's fist seemed to connect with Murph's face on shocking mute.

"Hey. Hey!" Ken vaulted over the bar and landed on top of the guy who was continuing to pummel the bartender. "Get off! _Hey!_ "

"Help!" he could hear Murph screaming now that he was closer. "Oh my god, help! He's gonna kill me, oh my god! Jesus!"

He finally managed to drag the guy off, mostly, he suspected, because the guy was so spitting mad he'd lost much of his coordination.

"That 'John' was my best friend, you fucking asshole!" he yelled. "And Nick Hunter is a useless, drug-running piece of shit. He didn't get a tenth of what he deserved, for getting Johnny killed. I shoulda let Corday finish him off!"

What the hell had Ken walked into tonight? Taking a firm hold of the man, whose strength was thankfully dwindling, he asked Murph, "Is that true? Sugar's friend was running drugs out of here?"

Murph stood shakily and fumbled for ice and a paper towel. "No, no," he denied hurriedly, putting the cold pack to his face, first one side, then the other. "Nick was a good kid." He turned to glare back at the other man, seeming to gain some courage now that Ken was holding him back. "Until he got mixed up with a dirty cop."

The fight seemed to go out of the man in Ken's arms. Ken had to step back with a grunt as he became near dead weight. "Fuck you," was all he said. He stumbled away from Ken and started for the door.

"Hey!" Murph yelled after him. "Your tab, asshole!"

"How much does he owe?" Ken asked.

"Over thirty dollars, the stinking pig."

Ken winced. He had enough, however, and the advance for the show was coming in at the end of the month. He pulled out thirty-five bucks. "He didn't drive here, did he?" he asked, keeping his eyes on that slightly meandering back.

"Who cares? Let him get himself killed. Did you see what he did to my face?" Ken noticed Murph didn't hesitate to pocket the cash.

"Could you call me a cab, Murph? Charlie's got my ride." He waited for the grunted assent. "Thanks. And pick up a heart while you're at it," he muttered to himself as he turned to chase after the cop.

***

He caught the guy wandering around the parking lot.

"Where's my car?" he demanded, as soon as he saw Ken, as if he suspected Ken of hiding away his automobile.

"I've got a cab coming. I'll take you home."

Ken wasn't exactly sure why he was bothering. There was something about the man that drew him. Curiosity about his history. Compassion for a man in pain. A vague sense of spectator's guilt. Whatever it was, he didn't like to leave a clearly inebriated man alone at eleven o' clock at night. The cynicism he had learned growing up hadn't quite beat out the idealism he still occasionally aspired to.

The man seemed to resist for a moment, the emotion marching slowly across his face. But he finally acquiesced, himself taking the lead back to the front of the Green Parrot. Ken raised his eyebrows at the aggressive strut. This was a man used to being in charge of the scene, all right. He wondered for a moment if he was doing the smart thing, taking on this firebrand, but he was stubborn enough to always try to finish what he started.

"So your friend..." Ken ventured, as they waited for the cab to arrive. "He's, uh, he was dirty?"

The stony gaze turned on him made Ken wonder if he'd better run for it after all, before he needed a few ice packs himself. Or an undertaker. But the man made no move toward him. "No. The cop who murdered him was."

"I'm sorry." It seemed an inadequate reply. Ken had watched a lot of his friends get hurt by the so-called Law Enforcement over the years, but... killed? Murdered? He shuddered. _That's where your big mouth gets you_ , he thought to himself ruefully. But the damage was done. "Why'd he do it?"

He waited several beats before the guy grunted, "Because he was..." he waved a hand.

"Gay?" Ken guessed.

"No!" The man stuffed his hands in his pockets and scrunched his neck down into his collar. "No," he repeated more calmly. "Because he was a cop. And because he was there. Saw something he shouldn't've." He scowled. "Except he would never've even been there if some queer hooker hadn't drugged him up. What kind of dive are these homos running here, for fuck's sake?" He turned to spit in the direction of the entrance to the bar.

Ken took a breath, telling himself firmly this wasn't his fight. He was done with that kind of thing. Besides, the guy was drunk. But that streak of idealism, once rousted, refused to die down. "You got a problem with gays?" he asked softly.

The answer was swift. "Yeah, I have a problem with gays. They got my friend killed!"

"I thought it was your police buddy that did that."

He was prepared. That was the only thing that saved him from eating a knuckle sandwich. He ducked under the blow and, catching the swinging arm, twisted it up behind the other man's back. "Not so nice on the receiving end, is it?" he commented. Getting targeted regularly for much of his youth had taught him the value of self-defense. He'd enrolled in a class as soon as he'd had the cash for it.

That was a long time ago, though, and he'd forgotten whom he was up against.

The cop swore and lunged forward, pulling Ken off balance. Taking advantage of the slack, he elbowed Ken painfully in the stomach and reversed the hold onto Ken's wrist. He used the remaining momentum to slam Ken to the ground.

Ken immediately curled himself up to protect his vital parts. He forced himself to go limp, not escalating the violence, but also ready to accept the blows that were no doubt coming.

Instead, the cop released him. Ken peeked tentatively out. Was the man too drunk to continue? But no, he was crouched next to Ken's head, looking surprisingly sober. His gaze was sharp.

"Shit. Get up." He offered a hand, and Ken took it, half in shock. When they were both standing again, the cop shoved him in the chest. He pointed at Ken's face. "You deserved that," he said.

Ken opened his mouth with a hot answer, but he held his temper. "Maybe." He couldn't help adding, "But you deserved that, too."

The man frowned. His eyes were hooded from the streetlight and the flashing Green Parrot sign overhead. Face grim and his feet slightly spread, he stood only a couple of inches shorter than Ken's six-one. "Maybe," he finally agreed. He turned his head to scan the street, his body losing only a miniscule amount of its former tension. He looked like some sentinel from a bygone era. "It's just not right," he declared gruffly. "Damn homos playing around at relationships when..." He swore again. "John had a wife. He had people who loved him."

"Gay people can love, too," Ken inserted automatically, before he bit his tongue.

That earned him a glare. "Yeah? Well, his _lover_ " -- he sneered at the word -- "was nowhere around when Johnny got drugged up for the contents of his wallet, and murdered in cold blood. He was off figuring out his new career. Some shit like that. So you tell me, who do you think took it harder? Who was the one dying inside? His gay 'lover', or his _wife_ of twenty-two years?"

Ken struggled for an answer, poised between an unwelcome wave of sympathy and his reflex responses as a veteran protestor for peace and equality. If this 'John' hadn't been forced by prejudice into a life of secrecy, he wanted to argue, he wouldn't have been in that situation in the first place.

Unlike many of his fellows, however, Ken had the same bleeding-heart tendencies toward the opposition as well as 'his' side. That was partly why he'd had to get out of that scene. This man was clearly in pain. Anger was a normal sign of recent grief, especially for such a horrible tragedy as he had experienced. Ken couldn't find it in him to blame him, but neither could he absolve him of his prejudiced attitude.

Fortunately, the cab arrived at that moment, before Ken had to produce a suitable response. The cop, probably assuming that he'd won the verbal duel, turned his attention to navigating his way into the back of the cab.

The man's energy reserves had apparently been spent by beating the stuffing out of Murph and then searching for his mysteriously concealed car. It took him three tries to get the door open. He moved like he had weights tied to his fingers, swearing under his breath the whole time, but finally clambered in and sat more or less upright. That angry, brooding look was back, tempered by the obvious wooziness of a coming alcohol crash.

Ken shook his head and entered from the other side.

"Where to?" asked the cabbie. He sounded studiously uninterested in the vagaries of the clientele of this particular bar. It was Ken who blushed slightly at what the cabbie's assumptions must be.

He was glad his temporary companion was apparently too distracted by the effort of remaining conscious at the moment to notice the cabbie's silent smirk in the rear-view mirror. Ken was unsure how the man might have reacted to the situation otherwise, given his obvious views on relationships between men.

Ken shook his shoulder, maybe a bit more roughly than necessary. "Where do you live?"

The man scowled but half-coherently rattled off an address on the other side of town, close to the coast. A cop's salary couldn't be as bad as all that if he owned a house there, Ken surmised.

Once the car started moving, the man fell asleep with stunning alacrity. The subtle bumps in the road caused his head to slide sideways until it rested heavily on Ken's shoulder. Ken tried not to move, surprising even himself at how nice it felt to have someone so close. So... trusting.

He obviously hadn't had a date in much too long.

With the streets mostly clear at this time of night, they got to the man's house -- a loft-style two-story with attached garage -- fairly soon. Ken paid the cabbie and supported the exhausted and thoroughly intoxicated man up the stairs to his front door, figuring he was in for a penny, in for a pound. He'd help the poor guy to bed and then call another cab home.

Somewhat to his amusement, the man took his assistance without a word of protest. He was apparently the sort to forgive and forget. Or maybe he was just too addled to care. "Bay City's finest," Ken muttered to himself, watching the man fumble for his keys.

"Whuh?"

"Need some help?"

"I got it."

He eventually did, and they entered a homey little place, neat without being spartan, filled without being cluttered. Ken helped the guy to the bathroom first. Let him take a piss and force-fed him two glasses of water. "You'll thank me in the morning," he admonished his protesting charge.

They hit the bedroom next and, heaving a sigh of exasperation, Ken even helped him to undress. "Usually when I take a hot man home and tear his clothes off in bed, something comes out of it," he joked, as he peeled off the guy's jeans with far more effort than doffing a piece of clothing ever should require.

"What's so great about fucking other guys, anyway?"

Ken laughed in surprise at the sudden lucid question. "Excuse me?" He sobered at the serious cast to the guy's features.

"What did John want that he couldn't get at home? I mean, what the hell was worth all the trouble?"

Ken didn't answer, unsure if it was a rhetorical question or not. He pulled up the covers. "You should get some sleep. I'm going to use your phone and--"

A pair of hands, stunningly strong, seized him. "Show me."

"What?"

"Show me what the hell is so damn fantastic. What was Johnny thinking, fergodsake?"

Ken, who was generally reasonably suave, had always had a streak of clumsiness that cropped up at the most inopportune times. At the other man's tug, he fell across the bed -- and across the man's hard body. "Wait a sec." He scrambled up, but he was flipped onto his back with shocking agility.

"C'mon. You're one of _those_ guys, right? What've you got that John would want so bad he'd throw away his whole life for it? Huh?"

"You're drunk," Ken said, trying to sound reasonable in the face of his rising panic. The man was heavy and strong for all his slimness. He'd laid his body down on top of Ken's, and Ken could feel his every heaving, alcohol-laden breath.

One hand played with Ken's hair while the other wandered down. It squeezed Ken's buttock, causing him to gasp. "Skinny ass. No boobs. What's the point?" The hand came back up to caress Ken's chin, a thumb running lightly across his lips. Ken shuddered, acutely aware of the fact that the feeling was not unpleasant.

"I ain't never kissed a man before. Is it better?"

At mention of kissing, Ken at long last came to his senses and shoved the other man off. He obviously hadn't gotten laid in too long. He was half-hard from a stranger's drunken groping -- one who wasn't even after sex. "Stop it! Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"No." Ken sat up and raked his fingers through his hair, flustered and confused by the sorrow in the other man's tone. "Tell you the truth, I don't think I know anything anymore." Still slumped in a heap where Ken had shoved him, the man stared searchingly into Ken's face. Tears started to run from the corners of his eyes.

Damn it all to hell.

"Johnny was... I never had a friend like him. He was like my brother. My father. How could he be _gay_?" Ken gasped as the man grabbed his wrists, squeezing tightly. He jerked Ken closer. "And how could he die on me like that? What the _hell_ was he doing?" He shifted his grip to Ken's shirtfront and shook him back and forth as he spoke.

Ken swore as the other man dissolved into drunken sobs, still maintaining a death grip on him. He would have to kill Charlie tomorrow, he decided, for getting him into this. For now, he patted the grieving man awkwardly on the back. "Hey, it's okay. It's gonna be all right."

He pried at the man's fingers, trying to extricate himself, but the man would have none of it. The tough cop who had pounded on Murph's face and thrown Ken to the ground was now sobbing uncontrollably and rocking in place.

"Hey, shh, it's okay." Ken groaned and cursed his soft heart even as he tried harder to soothe the other man. He really should be getting home, instead of wasting his time comforting a sad drunk -- one who may very well break his nose if he were sober and realized he had a man in his bed.

"Oh god, John... It hurts so bad." That broken voice pierced Ken straight to the bone.

Sighing, and hoping he wasn't making a huge mistake, Ken slid down beside the man to cradle him in a hug. The man immediately wrapped his arms around Ken's torso in return. Ken faltered, but again, he was stuck with what he'd started.

Hesitating at first, then with more confidence, as it seemed to help, he whispered nonsense words and pointless condolences. He stroked the man's hair until his sobs quieted to a hurt-filled keening. He dragged up lullabies and folk songs from his long-unused repertoire and sang softly until the man finally fell asleep in his arms.

And without quite meaning to, Ken followed him, slipping into oblivion with the chorus to some traditional Spanish love song still on his lips.

***

Ken woke first, confused by the different light and surroundings. He lay, fully clothed, wrapped around a mostly nude man, with the covers down by their feet.

Wincing as he remembered what had occurred to bring them here, he inched backward, drawing his arm out from beneath the solid body next to him. His arm was numb and would surely hurt like a son of a bitch as it woke up. Once off the bed, he looked first to his companion. He was fast asleep, curled up like a baby with his hands tucked up beneath his chin.

The morning light illuminated his bruised knuckles mercilessly.

Ken held his breath and rolled carefully off the bed. He had to get out of here. What had he been thinking?

A pressing need forced him to make his way back to the bathroom first. He found his way there without trouble. There was only the one bedroom, with the bathroom a few steps down the hall outside. He used the facilities, and he debated borrowing the guy's toothpaste for a quick brush with his index finger. He discarded the idea as too risky.

The second objective was, of course, to get home. This place actually wasn't too far from his own. It'd probably only take a little under an hour to walk it. He could skip the phone call for a cab, which might wake his unknowing host. And as a side benefit, he could enjoy the morning air, clear his head.

Last night had been... an adventure. Not one he regretted, he realized somewhat to his own surprise, but nevertheless something to think over.

Furtively, he opened the door, prepared to tiptoe his way out of the apartment.

"Well, shit. I guess I wasn't hallucinating." Ken jumped at the voice as he exited the bathroom, spinning around with his heart racing.

His host was leaning against the wall beside the bathroom door, looking somewhat worse for wear but alert. He'd thrown on a blue bathrobe over his black bikini briefs. He squinted and looked Ken from top to bottom. "At least you're gorgeous," he said, in an off-hand manner that had Ken stumbling for a rejoinder.

The other man held up his hand before Ken could say anything. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't've said that. About last night... I was--"

"Drunk," Ken finished for him. Straight men did a lot of things while under the influence. Ken should be able to nudge him along into that idea easily. He really didn't need for a guy who argued with his fists to start thinking Ken had molested him. He thought he could hold his own if it came down to that -- especially with the other man still hungover -- but damn it, he needed his hands for his work.

"I was out of line," the man corrected, throwing Ken completely off his mental track. " _Way_ out of line." He groaned. "If you were a woman, you could probably slap a sexual assault charge on me." He looked hopeful for a moment. "Unless that part was a hallucination?"

Ken shook his head. He felt his neck heating up with embarrassment even as he floundered with confusion. Sexual assault...? On _him_? The guy had been three sheets to the wind and weepy besides. He didn't really think he had _assaulted_ Ken?

"Damn. Look, uh, if you want..." Ken tensed, wondering what the cop was about to offer. Money? Goods? Cancelled parking tickets? He opened his mouth to tell him to just forget it, but the man continued in a firmer voice. "I'll take you down to Metro, and you can file some paperwork. But, but I'd really like it if you didn't. I mean, I'd really like that."

The man clamped his lips into a grim line. He crossed his arms and waited, but his eyes -- which were a dark blue, Ken noticed now in the light -- were filled with worry.

Ken regarded the man. He certainly was a curiosity. A straight cop -- in more ways than one. The man stood firmly as he waited for Ken's pronouncement, as if a faggot's rights were at all important to him. His short, rather ratty blue robe seemed at odds with the serious mien of its owner.

Hairy, slightly bowed legs protruded from the bottom, the musculature of them well-defined. The forearms that peeked out of the sleeves were equally formidable. The robe's sash was knotted tightly over a trim waist, pulling the fabric to accentuate the broad shoulders. This, obviously, was not a cop who lounged behind a desk or a steering wheel, only to venture out for a donut or to nab a dangerous jaywalker.

In spite of himself, Ken noted the man's dark olive skin and beautiful long lashes. Last night at the bar, his irregular but somehow charming features had been a perfect model of sympathetic melancholy and, later, of tightly leashed anger. Now, they were a study in nervous fortitude.

Looking at the man's rich dark brown hair, backlit by the light from the bedroom, Ken was struck by the memory of stroking that hair and hearing the man hiccup sobs against his chest.

Finally, Ken shook his head. He crossed his own arms and raised his eyebrows.

"How are you supposed to take me to Metro, with your car still at the Green Parrot?" he said, making sure to put equal parts firmness and humor into the words.

The man looked surprised. And relieved. "Oh. Oh, yeah." He smiled sheepishly, answering Ken's exasperated grin.

"Make me breakfast and we'll call it even," Ken offered.

"No problem-o! I make a mean scrambled salami and egg sandwich."

"A _what_?" Ken thought he was joking at first, but the man looked serious. "Uh... okay." He'd eaten worse, he supposed.

"I'm Dave, by the way," the man said, sticking out his hand. "David Starsky."

Ken shook, noting the strong grip. "Ken Hutchinson. Pleased to meet you."

***

Salami and eggs turned out to go not horribly together, though Ken wasn't sure he would choose to have them in combination again. Slightly wall-eyed, he took another forkful, having opted to have his toast separate.

"How can you eat this stuff? Shouldn't you be kneeling to the porcelain gods right now, after the night you had?"

The man -- Dave -- patted his stomach, now clad in a worn T-shirt above a pair of cutoff shorts. Weekend wear, evidently. "This? Cast iron. Inherited from a long line of Starskys."

Ken shook his head in wonder. "You eat like this all the time?"

"Yup."

"How do you keep your figure so fit?" He paused, worried Dave might take that poorly.

Dave didn't seem to notice, taking the statement at face value. "Fast metabolism. Also inherited--"

"--from a long line of Starskys?"

Dave grinned. "Yeah! You catch on quick." He shrugged. "I jog, go to the gym twice a week. And police work in Bay City involves more action than you might think."

"Not so much coffee and donuts, then?"

"Nope. I'm more of a candy bars and mixed nuts guy. What about you? What's your story?"

"Uh." Ken felt caught by surprise by the question, despite how reasonable it was. "I'm an artist," he answered briefly, which he realized suddenly was what he said to guys he meant to hook up with. "I paint," he added quickly. "Actually, my studio is only about ten blocks from here, on Wood Avenue."

He wasn't used to having breakfast with strange, handsome men who weren't interested in sex -- especially when he still had the man's scent on his clothes from last night.

"What do you paint?"

"People, mostly. Portraits. I started out busking on the street, you know, doing portraits for tourists and couples."

"Hey, nifty. How long does it take to do one?"

"Back in the day, I could whip one out in fifteen minutes. Now that I'm" -- he made quotes in the air, using only one finger for the hand still holding his fork -- "a 'professional', I take more time, put more thought into it. Sometimes I'll do several and submit only one for a show or for sale. So it can take weeks."

Dave whistled. "That's impressive." Ken wondered if Dave ever spent all that time on one thing. From what he'd seen of him so far, he seemed an impetuous man, with quick reflexes but little patience.

As if reading his mind, Dave offered a lopsided grin. "I used to build models when I was a kid. Cars and ships, mostly. And I work on my car sometimes." He shrugged. "S'not art, though."

Ken revised his ideas quickly. The man had intriguing depths. "Art is anything that has meaning to you. A car is a work of art. Why not?" Charlie would probably laugh his head off if he heard him now. Ken could imagine his friend scoffing, _Your scrapheap? Yeah, a real piece of art that is!_

Dave looked pleased. Then the smile dropped from his face and he stood to collect their plates. "I guess I shouldn't keep you from your artist-y things then," he said, not quite meeting Ken's eye. "I'd offer you a ride home, but..." He shot Ken a quick, wry smile.

"Thanks for breakfast." Ken stood as well. The sudden break of the connection between them was disconcerting, as much for its presence as for its absence. He didn't normally click so fast with people. He didn't know why he had fallen so comfortably into a sense of camaraderie with David.

"Thanks for last night." Dave wiped his hands on a dish towel and then linked them behind his back, shifting from one foot to another.

"It's, uh, it's okay. I guess I'll just..."

Dave snapped his fingers, suddenly looking a little more animated. "Oh, wait, I owe you cab money, don't I?"

"Don't worry about it."

"No, really. Starskys pay their debts."

"The whole long line of them?"

"You bet!"

Ken smiled, feeling better with the tentatively resumed back-and-forth. "That reminds me, I paid your tab for you, too."

Dave winced at the reminder. "Uh, did I get that guy as bad as I remember?"

"Naw," Ken lied easily. He didn't see any reason to help Murph get restitution for something that his own big mouth had gotten him into. "You were so messed up you barely touched him. Surprised the hell out of him, is all."

Dave looked relieved. "Thanks, buddy. How much do I owe you?"

He told Dave the amount and watched him strut on back to the bedroom for his wallet. Ken recalled suddenly how the guy had looked, doing that in those painted-on jeans.

Straight, huh? Too bad.

That got him thinking, though: Dave was a straight cop, all right. And a smart and thoughtful man. He had an obviously warm heart and a straightforward manner and a strong will.

 _C'mon, Kenny_ , Ken sighed to himself. _He's a more than decent guy, and his best friend was murdered last week. The least you could do is try to cheer him up._

When Dave returned, bills in his hand, Ken asked him, "Want to see my studio?"

Dave faltered, and his eyes widened a fraction -- and then he broke out into a huge grin. "No kiddin'? I'd love to!"

  
END Part One.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:  
> [Knowing](http://community.livejournal.com/starskyhutch911/227903.html) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji  
> [Tap Dancin' For All He's Worth](http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/25393.html) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji  
> [The Day The Universe Changed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/200271) (Starsky & Hutch), by Dawnwind


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